


hundred years, hundred more

by betony



Category: Woman King (Song)
Genre: Gen, Historical, Jukebox Fest Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes more than defeat to deny a king her position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hundred years, hundred more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepfighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepfighter/gifts), [apatternedfever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apatternedfever/gifts).



> For apatternedfever and sleepfighter, whose requests introduced me to this wonderful song. This piece is what popped into my head when I mulled the song over; I hope that, even if it's slightly different to your prompts (both of which were fantastic), that you enjoy this nonetheless!

_(someday we may see)_

The rules of history are simple: To be a king, one needs power. Power is victory. Defeat—by rival contenders, by challengers, by early death—means nothing but obscurity. 

We were all defeated. Is it so surprising history turned her face from us? 

_(bloodshot eyes)_

PRINCESS PINGYANG, 623 AD 

Pingyang is dying. Not half a decade has passed since her army, raised with nothing more than charm and coins, won her father an Imperial throne, and now, in her twenty-fifth year, her life has come to an end. The illness began slowly, weakness claiming her limbs, but tonight her breaths rattle and she knows it will not be long. 

The moon hangs full outside her window, but even the late hour no longer disturbs her. She hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in years, not since the nights she passed the night wide-eyed and frantic, reading correspondence by flickering lamplight, calculating new tactics for the dawn. She is accustomed to burning eyes, to fatigue, to wholehearted devotion to her father’s service. 

She will have some reward for her fidelity, although she won’t live long enough to enjoy it. From her window, she can hear her father’s plans for her funeral—and what a funeral it shall be! The bands who play only for the highest officials, the honors afforded only to the bravest of generals. 

In the morning, this pomp—this world—will no longer hold any meaning for her. For now, Pingyang smiles. 

_(sword in hand, swing at some evil and bleed)_

THE RANI OF JHANSI, 1858 AD 

The tide of battle is turning. The British will certainly win. 

Lakshmibai throws aside her pistol and chokes back a sob of rage. Those same cowardly men, who stood before her in the Royal Court of Jhansi, who would dare to remove her from throne and palace alike, not to mention rob her son of his birthright—the thought that with her death, those same representatives of the East India Company will have free reign over her kingdom is unbearable. 

Nevertheless she stands by her words, thundered down from her throne to the British as they made their haughty demands: “I will not give up my Jhansi!” She will not abandon her responsibility, given to her by the sacred bonds of marriage, into the hands of the greedy, the unjust, those who will respect neither her subjects nor her lands as they should be, come what may. If she dies, and die she surely will, she will go in the service of her people. 

Lakshmibai grits her teeth and raises her sword. 

_(thumb down and start to weep)_

BOUDICA, 61 AD 

She knows enough of her enemies—inhumane barbarians that they are—to have heard of their games, how they crowd into their great stone buildings to watch captive men, women, and animals die for their pleasure. To explain away their perversity, they claim the fighters have the right to defend their lives, but she knows the truth: when a fight takes a turn spectators don’t like, with a turn of their thumbs, even the valiant are slaughtered. 

Today she remembers this from her chariot, her daughters’ reassuring weight behind her. Tears no longer well in their eyes; since Boudica promised them justice, their minds are occupied with preparation for battle rather than their outrage. 

“Win or die!” she exhorts those who fight with her, and then, thinking of the Roman legions who wait for them, turns her thumb defiantly downwards. 

Let them see how it feels, to have their destiny in the hands of another. 

Her warriors cheer. Boudica’s scarred back burns, and she fights back the urge to weep with satisfaction. 

_(slowing as she goes to sleep)_

HATSHEPSHUT, 1436 BC 

In the afterlife, Hatshepshut startles. One of her cartouches—one of the holy inscriptions bearing her name—has been destroyed, and with it, she feels part of herself fade away. 

At first she feels nothing but irritation. Her stepson chooses to minimize costs by appropriating one of her temples as his own, she guesses; and though it irks her, such economy is hardly unexpected. But the destruction grows and grows, and her mind fills with mingled anger and confusion. 

Did she not crown Thutmose by her side and give him command of her armies? Did he not deny any resentment of her authority? Did he not rule these long years since alone and not feel the need to deny her glory? These questions have no answer. These questions cease to matter after some time. 

_My name is Hatshepshut,_ she reminds herself again and again, so at least someone remembers, _Hatshepshut Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt._

Now all that remain are the inscriptions found in places so little known that even those who seek to obscure her have forgotten them. 

_Hatshepshut, Daughter of Amun, Bringer of Peace and Prosperity to Egypt—_

Even those titles seem faint and far away these days. She recites her name more frantically. 

_My name is Hatshepshut—_

_(a woman king)_

The rules of kingship, on the other hand, are more demanding: Face all enemies with dignity. Fight for justice; be merciless to the wicked. Carve a destiny that ensures you will never be forgotten. 

All of this, we have done. 

It takes more than a crown to make a king. It takes more than defeat to deny a king her position. 

Better than anyone, we know this.

**Author's Note:**

> All of these women are historical figures; they all have far more to their stories than I could include here, and I heartily recommend looking them up if at all curious. As always, if I've made any errors in researching or describing their stories, I would very much appreciate you letting me know!


End file.
